


a silver glory for despair

by Knightblazer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, M/M, One Night Stands, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 21:47:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knightblazer/pseuds/Knightblazer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Lestrade receives the text three hours after the evening properly starts.</i> (After the <i>The Sign of Three</i>, minor spoilers)</p>
            </blockquote>





	a silver glory for despair

**Author's Note:**

> Browsing through tumblr tags and I saw a text post going _what if Sherlock and Lestrade have lonely post-wedding sex and Sherlock keeps calling out wrong names_ and I was rudely encouraged to write this by a friend of mine. SO this is dedicated to her, who is the BBC Watson to my Ritchie Watson, among many other things. :3
> 
> Title for this fic comes from [31_days](http://31-days.livejournal.com), with the prompt for 29th July 2013. As said above, this fic takes place just a bit after _The Sign of Three_ , so minor spoilers are abound. Fresh off the press and totally unbeta'd and brit-picked, so forgive any and all errors that may arise. That said, please do enjoy the story!

Lestrade receives the text three hours after the evening properly starts.

_Baker Street. As soon as possible.  
SH_

There’s a moment in where he has to blink at that, surprised before he glances up and scans the floor around him. He wasn’t even aware that Sherlock had left in the first place, although he supposed he couldn’t be too taken aback. As much as Sherlock regarded John as his closest friend, he never quite got the hang of social situations. Perhaps he had just excused himself for the night since his work was done; it wouldn’t be the first time.

He glances back down at his phone again. For a few seconds he debates on simply ignoring it, having not quite forgiven Sherlock for that stunt he pulled those few weeks back. It was a miracle alone he managed to not land himself into trouble from that but it effectively put him in the laughingstock of the Met for days after that. The fact that Sally _did_ end up getting all the credit for the Walter gang’s arrest didn’t really make matters that much better, either.

But before he can decide or even try to delete the text his phone buzzes again with yet another text from Sherlock, this one even shorter than the first one.

_Please._

No sign off this time; just that one word. Please. Considering what had happened the _last_ time he used that word on him, Lestrade knew he should be more suspicious of it. But yet it was so rare that Sherlock would actually resort to begging—before his return from the dead the last time he had ever used it in any situation with him was when he was pale as death and shaking like a leaf, curled into a painful ball in the last flat he lived in before he became clean, started working with Lestrade properly on his cases and moved into Baker Street. 

That is, before John ever came into the picture.

He stares at the text and sees the message staring back at him, that single word almost burning into his vision. Lestrade is well aware that he’s had enough alcohol in his system to put him on the side of tipsy and really should be just ignoring whatever Sherlock is sending him, but just thinking about ignoring Sherlock only makes him remember about Moriarty and of the death that didn’t happen and the guilt that still churns in his gut all the same even until now, so many weeks after the truth had come out.

Lestrade is perfectly aware that Sherlock can see his guilt, as plain as day. Maybe that’s why he’s doing all of this in the first place. Or maybe he’s just getting horribly soft-hearted _because_ of said guilt. 

Regardless of the reason, Lestrade knows that he can’t exactly turn away now, not with these thoughts running in his head, so he bites down a sigh and sends back a response to Sherlock.

_Give me an hour; I’ll be right there._

* * *

It’s surprisingly easy for Lestrade to excuse himself from the wedding once he answers back to Sherlock. Maybe it’s because people can see his general low mood, which is probably something he shouldn’t have brought to the wedding, or maybe it’s because everyone is so distracted with John and his new wife, including John himself. Lestrade has to admit that Mary Morstan is a great wife for John, from what he can tell—she’s beautiful, amazing and even encourages John to keep his life with Sherlock. A perfect match, if he had ever seen one, unlike him and _his_ wife. Two years down the road, it’s still hard to forget her entirely. 

Adultery is a bitter pill to swallow, he thinks darkly.

Pulling his car over right outside of 221B, Lestrade gets out of his car, locks it properly and steps into the cold night air. Spring has at least made the nights more tolerable now that winter is properly over, but still cold enough to feel the chill seeping through his coat. 

Lestrade huffs out a breath and squares his shoulders. If anything, at least going to 221B could let him warm up a bit; the heater back in his own dingy little flat was a useless thing that barely worked three quarters of the time. He makes his way to the door, wondering for a moment if he should knock, or something, but the answer was already there for him when he reached it, via the form of a post-it note stuck right on top of the door knob.

_Door’s unlocked. Lock it after you enter and come upstairs._  
 _Be sure to get rid of your coat downstairs too._  
 _SH_

Lestrade can’t help but frown a little now; just what exactly did Sherlock want from him? Help on a case? It’s not like he can think of anything else besides that—after all, that’s pretty much the only thing that tied him and Sherlock together. If it wasn’t for work, then…

He stops himself before he can think any further. Since he already came all this way here, he might as well just see what Sherlock wanted from him. If anything, he could just make an excuse and leave. Even though Sherlock would be able to see through it, but he couldn’t really find it within himself to care too much. The whole day had tired him out enough, to be quite honest.

Decision made, Lestrade moves to open the door, stepping into the much warmer air of 221B. He can’t help but let out a small sigh of gratitude as he closes the door behind him, relishing the warmth of his surroundings for a moment.

“Stop dawdling downstairs and come up already.”

Trust Sherlock to ruin the moment, like always. Lestrade bites down a snarky response and simply goes ahead to remove his coat, hanging it over the railing of the stairs. He also locks the main door as requested, trusting Mrs Hudson to have the key whenever she returns from the wedding. All of that done, he makes his way up to where Sherlock resides, surprised to find the door ajar once he’s at the top. As he steps closer to the threshold that separates Sherlock’s residence from the rest of the flat, his voice comes out again.

“Take off your shoes and come in. Shut the door behind you.”

This time, Lestrade _does_ respond. “Don’t order me around, Sherlock.” There’s a snap to his voice he can’t help but throw out, not really in the mood to put up with all of this. His mood was already bad enough even before the wedding (and during it), and after everything that’s happened Lestrade really doesn’t need a reason for it to get worse.

There’s a brief pause after that, and then as curt as it is Sherlock replies with a ‘sorry’, and that’s another thing that surprises Lestrade again. In all the time he’s known Sherlock he’s never apologized to him, even when it’s clear he did something that _needed_ apologizing for and just goes on trampling everything in his path. To hear that from Sherlock now is… disconcerting, really.

Disconcerting, but it’s also enough for Lestrade to stop thinking about turning around to leave, at least for the moment. 

He steps inside and closes the door behind him, just as he had done earlier downstairs. Most of the lights are off, with the exception of the ones in the hallway, and the lights there cast out harsh shadows from the things that are set near them. One of them happens to be the chair that Sherlock is sitting on right now, features only barely visible in the dim lighting. On the table beside him is what Lestrade quickly makes out to be a bottle of wine. He frowns when he sees that, recalling the day when he had to get them out from the cell. It had not been exactly a good day for him then, either. “Are you drinking?” he asks.

Sherlock doesn’t answer, only drinks from his glass and continues to stare at whatever it is in front of him.

Lestrade scowls a little and takes two steps towards the chair Sherlock is in, asking again, this time with a bit of bite in his question. “Sherlock. Are you drinking?”

Sherlock exhales loudly and puts down the glass onto the table. “Isn’t it obvious, George?”

“ _Greg._ ” It’s getting irritating how Sherlock keeps getting his bloody name wrong, but at least it’s not like he’s forgotten it like back in Dartmoor. (And wasn’t that a lifetime ago, that incident. Lestrade almost misses it.)

“Greg,” Sherlock repeats, but considering his track record Lestrade is pretty certain he’ll forget it soon enough. He takes another few steps closer to Sherlock, eyeing the bottle that’s set on the table. It looks like it’s been opened just earlier, possibly when Sherlock returned from the wedding. The cork’s still sitting at the edge of the table, skewered through the end of the bottle opener. The bottle itself is half empty.

Lestrade thinks about the morning with the cell again and tries not to frown too obviously this time round. “Are you drunk?”

Sherlock, to his relief, scoffs at the question. “I’m not _that_ much of a lightweight. You can relax, Lestrade.”

Back to Lestrade it was, then. The man sighs and runs a hand through his hair, glad at least that he doesn’t have to deal with a drunken Sherlock on his hands. According to the report, he had turned out to be quite a handful. Lestrade isn’t sure if he could handle a drunken Sherlock on a night like this.

Now that that was cleared, Lestrade supposes he should actually ask Sherlock what he called him here for. He drops his hand down from his head and glances at younger man in a quizzical manner. “Alright. Now that I’m here and we’ve established that you’re not drunk, do I get to know exactly why you asked me to skip the rest of John’s wedding and come here?”

The question earns him another scoff from Sherlock. “You would have left soon anyway, regardless of my text or not. There’s nothing for you to enjoy in a celebration where you’re only reminded of your divorce with your wife.” The words are straight and to the point, given with even less tact than usual (if that was even possible), and as much as Lestrade doesn’t like to hear it—he knows that Sherlock is right. He always has been right, he supposes, and once again he feels the guilt of two years ago eating at him.

“You’ve made your point,” he admits, knowing that trying to deny it would be useless right now. And besides, he’s in no mood to argue—especially not with Sherlock, who’ll probably just make him angrier and even more frustrated. “So, what do you want?”

Sherlock turns over to look at him then, the light just barely the expression on his face visible for Lestrade to see. “I’m suggesting we make far better use of our time tonight in a way that will help both of us,” he says, and there’s a look on his face accompanying those words that Lestrade can’t quite feel comfortable with. It’s a look he hasn’t really seen before on Sherlock’s face, and anything that he doesn’t know about Sherlock usually means bad news from his experiences. 

Lestrade narrows his eyes and tries to puzzle out what Sherlock is saying. “What do you mean?” he questions, hoping that Sherlock can stop being vague for once and actually get to the bloody point.

Even with the lack of light, he can see Sherlock rolling his eyes at the words. “I thought you would be smarter than this, Gary—”

“ _Greg._ ”

“—Greg.” Sherlock had an annoyed look on his face now, but it flattened out after a few moments and he resumed speaking. “As I was saying, there is a far better way for us to make use of our time tonight.”

“Yeah, you said that,” Lestrade does his best not to huff (to not much succession, judging by the puff of breath he hears soon enough), already feeling a tinge of irritation gnawing at his nerves. “Just get straight to the point, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinks once, as if taken by surprise by those last few words, but then straightens himself up in his seat. “We should have sex,” he says, with complete and utter calmness as if he were simply discussing the weather—that is, if Sherlock ever discussed the weather.

Lestrade can’t help but stare completely wide-eyed after he hears that, wondering if he actually _did_ hear it correctly. “Sorry?” he starts after a few notable moments of silence.

Now its Sherlock’s turn to huff, which he does with a great amount of irritation laced in that one sound. “Sex, Lestrade. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. You did it with your wife before she started to cheat on you.”

“I know what sex is!” Lestrade snaps out before he can stop himself and presses a palm against his face. Christ, he just feels like he’s stepped into the Twilight Zone or something. It’s one thing to hear Sherlock talk to him about sex, but it’s another thing entirely to hear Sherlock saying that they should have sex _together_. He hardly knows Sherlock personally, but he’s never seen the man take so much of an interest in anybody—John Watson aside, and it’s pretty clear for a fact that they weren’t hooked up and shagging at all. Needless to say, having all of this happening to him is a little sudden.

Sherlock, apparently, takes Lestrade’s outburst and subsequent silence as something else entirely, because he’s talking once more without prompting. “If you’re going start to ‘freaking out’ over the fact that we’re both of the same gender, then I strongly advise you to not even try and pretend it for me. I know for a fact that you’re attracted to both genders, but prefer women in general because of your upbringing. Utterly old-fashioned and boring, but I can’t claim to be an expert in this issue. It doesn’t really concern me in the end and I know again that it doesn’t concern you either.”

Lestrade forces himself to suck in a breath and drops his hand from his face. “That’s not the issue here,” he manages to get the words out as he looks at Sherlock, pursing his lips together and trying his best not to think too much of the fact that Sherlock knew about his bisexuality. It wasn’t as if he was hiding it, but… it wasn’t something he liked to share with people, either. 

Another pause from Sherlock, and slowly then he narrows his eyes at Lestrade. “Then what is the issue?” he asks, the question coming out in a harsh snap of words.

Christ, was it not obvious at all? How thick could he be? “The fact that you’re _asking in the first place,_ ” Lestrade replies, emphasizing heavily on the last couple of words. Did Sherlock even know how utterly tactless of him this was? If it had been anybody else, he was sure that Sherlock would have been left long ago with a bruise on his jaw or something.

“I don’t see what ‘the issue’ is,” Sherlock answers brusquely. “We’re both single, unattached, and it is a scientific fact that having sex once in a while is conducive to the human mind through the release of oxytocin and other related hormones.” His words are clipped, curt, straight to the point and seemingly giving no leeway for Lestrade whatsoever. “There is no lost love between either of us, and we both understand the concept of a ‘one night stand’. One night, without any strings attached as per the custom, and we can both return to our daily lives for the better.”

There are so many things about that response that Lestrade doesn’t even want to start thinking or asking about, so he takes a moment to process it all before deciding on the one question he does have to ask. “Then why ask me?” After all, Sherlock could have just called a hooker or whatever and get _their_ services. He was a _cop_ , for god’s sake, not a person to come at Sherlock’s every beck and call with just a word or two.

Sherlock’s face twists into an expression of annoyance at the suggestion. “Too annoying,” he replies, “And they don’t know me at all. You understand me enough to know what is best. Besides, I don’t want to alert Mycroft when I call a hotline.”

Mycroft. Right. Yet another reason why this is something Lestrade should not be involved in. 

Lestrade does his best to not make a face. “Can’t you ask somebody else?” Even as he asks that question though, He already knows what the answer is. Sherlock doesn’t have that many friends at all—or people who can even tolerate him in the first place, and the closet friend he’s ever had just got married. He wonders if that’s the reason why Sherlock’s called him here.

He stops in his thoughts when Sherlock fixes him with a look so sharp and intense it seems to go all the way inside of him, as if he’s reading minds, or something. “There is nobody else I can ask this from,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that feels like an admission. “Just one night, Lestrade. That is all I ask of you. Do this, and I shall never bother you again.”

Lestrade opens his mouth for a moment, easily about to snap out a ‘ _no_ ’, but then stops himself before he can do that and snaps his mouth back shut. He studies Sherlock and sees the look on his face, glances down to the half-finished bottle of wine that sits on the table. If he leaves, he’s pretty sure that Sherlock is just going to keep drinking, and considering what happened the last time he was drunk Lestrade doesn’t really want to think what will happen when he gets drunk again. At least last time he still had John around to keep things in (relative) control, but tonight? Without John here, who knows what will happen. What _could_ (would?) happen.

There’s also the fact that anybody who’s close enough with Sherlock is all over at the wedding tonight. Barring Mycroft (who doesn’t give a fuck about Sherlock, it seems), there’s nobody at all who’s around to keep an eye. If he leaves, then there’s nobody else. It’s all up to him tonight to keep Sherlock in check, just like those times so long ago when he was going cold turkey.

And besides, Sherlock said it himself. It was just one night. One night, no strings attached, and then they could resume their lives. If Sherlock could be mature enough to handle this (which was saying something), then so could he.

“I can’t believe I’m fucking saying this,” he says, once he knows that his decision is made in his mind. “But alright. I accept your offer.”

Sherlock nods, as if he had been expecting his answer the entire time (and most likely _had_ , the bloody git). “Then we won’t waste any more time by talking here. Let’s get to the main event, shall we?”

* * *

Sex with Sherlock Holmes is not something that Lestrade had ever even come close to thinking he would ever experience in his life, but yet it was a thing that had happened. As much as it had been made clear between them that this was all just a one night, no strings attached thing, Lestrade can’t help but wonder if this was more than just a simple one night affair.

He had never thought how sex with Sherlock Holmes would be like but he would never expect this amount of gentleness that was so utterly unlike him. If anything he would have expected something fast and brutal and methodical, fucking him with nothing but the intention to get off and be rid of Lestrade as soon as possible. But yet that wasn’t what had happened, and Lestrade doesn’t know how long it’s been since they took off their clothes and started this but with the way Sherlock’s been doing little else but kissing and caressing him it feels like it’s been fucking forever. Or at least, long enough for his prick to really point out how much it wants to get off now. Lestrade makes a frustrated noise, trying to buck his hips to get Sherlock’s attention. “C’mon, Sherlock, _move_.”

“Not yet.” Sherlock’s voice is amazingly firm and steady even though he’s fully seated inside of Lestrade, and the only show of his restraint is the sweat beading on his forehead. He doesn’t even so much as glance up at him as Sherlock continues to work his way down Lestrade’s body, peppering every inch of his skin with kisses with a , nipping sometimes in ways that set sparks dancing across his nerves and making his cock jerk where its pressed between them.

Through his haze of pleasure, if Lestrade thinks enough, he might be able to change his perception of the figure currently fucking him into somebody else much more desirable. But the fact that they’re both naked doesn’t really help, since all he can really picture is his hands clutching around well-fitted, most likely expensive fabric judging from what he knows, and Sherlock’s curly and messy mop of hair is very different from the one he’s trying to imagine—even if they were of the same colour, he’s sure.

He wonders if Sherlock fucking him is because if he’s actually been aware all along, or if it’s just nothing else but pure coincidence. Then again, it’s hard to believe in coincidences when Sherlock Holmes is involved, as Lestrade has come to realize after all this time. If he knows, then he can’t help but wonder then if this is just some cruel way of punishing him, after what he’s done two years ago. As if the guilt isn’t enough, now he’s also asked this of him too, most likely knowing that he would have agreed; Lestrade supposes he wasn’t really trying his best to hide his frustration at the wedding.

Sherlock makes an annoyed sound, breaking Lestrade from his thoughts. “Stop thinking,” he growls out, low and just a bit dangerous, and somehow it sends a small ripple of pleasure down his spine. 

Lestrade starts to snap back a retort, but before he can say anything Sherlock finally starts to move and his mind is quickly overwhelmed by the sharp edge of pleasure that zings through his entire body. It’s good enough (and long enough) to leave him gasping for air, a swear dying in his throat. 

Now that he’s done taking his time, Sherlock is finally starting to pick up a proper pace that satisfies him, every thrust aimed directly at his prostate and Lestrade is quickly falling apart at the seams. He can’t keep down the moans that are being wrenched out of his throat at every thrust, every fibre of his being crying in pleasure as he quickly barrels towards the edge. It has been too fucking long since he’s had a good fuck like this, and as much as he knows this is a bad idea he can’t bring himself to regret it, not when it’s this good and in this suspension of pleasure he can easily lose himself in his fantasy of somebody else entirely. 

Still, he does have enough control, at least, to not say out any names and keep up the strings of moans and groans that Sherlock is bringing out from him far too easily as he feels his body tensing up, ready for release.

Sherlock seems to take that as a sign or something, because suddenly he switches gears, shifting them for a moment as he bends his head down and starts thrusting harder, nearly fucking him through the mattress and Lestrade can’t stop the words that slip out from his mouth. “Fuck, Holmes, I can’t—”

There’s a soft grunt from Sherlock as he moves one hand down to grasp Lestrade’s prick, stroking him in time with his thrusts, rubbing his thumb over the head. “Come,” he gasps out, voice breathless. “Come for me.”

Lestrade can’t hold back after hearing something like that. He feels himself climbing up the last few inches and tumbles down into orgasm, breath dying in his throat as he comes hard and fast between the two of them, semen splattering on Sherlock’s stomach as well as his own. As he shakes and shudders apart he can also feel Sherlock rushing towards his own release above him, thrusting a few more time before he bends down to press his face against the side of Lestrade’s neck as he finally comes as well with a loud cry against his skin, filling up the condom that he’s wearing. 

A few minutes pass in silence after that once the both of them are wholly spent, Sherlock still pressed on top of him with his face against his neck. Lestrade can’t say he minds that all much, especially with how surprisingly good the sex actually is. He doesn’t really think too much about it as he reaches over with a hand to run over Sherlock’s shoulder and then down the length of his arm. He’s always been a bit tactile after sex.

At first it seems like Sherlock is okay enough with the gesture, somewhat relaxing into it, but then he tenses back up and pulls back after another minute or so. He eases himself away from Lestrade and gets up on somewhat shaky legs, methodically getting rid of the condom before fixing him with a look.

“You may stay the night here, if you wish,” he states, voice already cool and crisp, leaving no hint whatsoever of what they had done just a few minutes ago. “You are free to use the shower to clean up as well. Just know that if you do stay the night, there won’t be any breakfast in the morning.” There is a pause, and then he adds almost stiffly. “Thank you for agreeing to this.”

Lestrade waves it off, since it’s not like it’ll change anything now. “One night, that’s all you asked for.” He can’t say it’s too bad either, and he does admittedly feel somewhat better after that, although he’s supposes it’s the sex talking.

Sherlock manages a small smile in return, seemingly satisfied with the answer. He then goes to gather his clothes and heads out of the room, presumably to use the shower first.

There’s the sound of the shower door closing down the hallway, and as he hears the echoes of the shower room Lestrade closes his eyes and tries not to think of the cry that Sherlock had let out during their session together. He had pressed himself against Lestrade’s neck to try and muffle it, but he had heard it all the same, and he knew that Sherlock was aware that he had heard it, too. That cry which was more than enough to tell Lestrade all that he needed to know the reason why Sherlock did all of this in the first place.

( _John_.)

 

 

 

 

 

Lestrade supposes that makes two of them peas in a pod, as far as unrequited feelings were going to be involved.


End file.
